


He is the Blacksmith

by fringeperson



Category: Brave (2012), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Family History, Magic, canon what?, not getting married today!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fringeperson/pseuds/fringeperson
Summary: The story goes that a prince hides himself as a blacksmith, and wins the heart of a princess. This... isn't quite that story.~Originally posted in '15
Relationships: Harry Potter & Merida
Comments: 4
Kudos: 102
Collections: VioletZap's all-time favorite stories





	He is the Blacksmith

Before the death of his father, before the splitting of the kingdom and the sundering of his bond with his three brothers, Mor'du also had a wife. He was the only one of his father's sons to marry, and his own first-born came into the world only a few short days after the old king died. A first-born that was taken into hiding by his mother when Mor'du declared war upon his brothers.

Hiding from the war, from the fighting, and from his father as well. Mor'du was strong and charismatic enough, but he had a foul temper, and though she did her duty as his wife, theirs was not a happy marriage – he had won her hand from her father in the Games, a princess won by a neighbouring prince. But it had not been the happy ending she had hoped for. She also knew how very unlikely it was that he would be good to them when there was a war he could display his mighty strength in.

To protect herself and her child, she not only travelled far – both from her husband's home of Dun Morith and her father's of Galbraith – but she also denied her name and claimed a new one for herself and her child. No more was she a princess of Dun Morith, or of Galbraith. Instead, she claimed for herself the humble name of Potter, as it was one of the few crafts she was capable in and enjoyed, and set herself among the common folk.

As her child grew though, she was careful to tell him every bit of his heritage, and when he married and had a son of his own, she told her grandchild the tales as well. The once-princess even lived long enough to tell the story of their history to her great-grandson, and by that time they had learned well that their history was important – and so when she passed, and her great-grandson had a little boy of his own, the child would be set on his pappy's knee and told the story of their family by his father as soon as he was old enough to understand the words.

~oOo~

“Magic,” breathed Mary Potter when she and her husband Hamish walked in on their little boy clapping happily as his wooden toys all danced about him with no visible hand controlling them.

“Magic,” Hamish confirmed, and scooped up his son. “I've got to go home,” he declared.

“Hamish?” Mary queried, confused. “Isn't _this_ home?”

“Sorry love,” he apologised – for confusing her. “I meant my ancestral home. The castle of Dun Morith.”

Mary gasped. Hands came up to cover her mouth and her eyes went wide in her face. “The... the home of Mor'du?” she whispered fearfully. He had told her his family history when they were courting, and she feared the great and terrible bear.

“Aye,” Hamish confirmed sadly. “There's a witch there somewhere. She'll know what we need to do with little Angus, since he's _our_ son, and we're not about to kill him for having magic,” he said, a hint of warning in his tone.

“Aye,” Mary agreed, straightening her spine. “Of course we're not. Sweet babby like Angus, it would be a sin, and the gods gave him his magic themselves.”

Hamish smiled at his wife and kissed her cheek, a silent apology for doubting her for even a moment.

“You're a fool if you think I'm letting you go alone though, Hamish Potter,” Mary warned her husband.

He grinned winsomely at her.

They packed up their home and set out the very next morning.

~oOo~

“I'm not a witch,” the middle-aged woman protested with a growl when they found her in her hovel that was out in the midst of a loch. “I'm just a humble wood-carver.”

“Aye,” Hamish agreed with barely-hidden sarcasm, and a brow raised in amusement as he looked about him. “I can see that,” he said, and gently tapped one of the many, _many_ bear-themed carvings the woman had made.

“Would you be able to tell us where we might find a witch, so that our boy can learn to control his magic?” Mary asked politely, and carefully pulled out a copper coin as she spoke. “We don't want anything unfortunate to happen to him because of his gift.”

“Four youngsters have set themselves up in a castle by a loch, oh, some two weeks hard ride east of here. They're tryin' te start up a school for children like your boy,” the old woman answered, her bulging eyes fixed on the copper coin held in Mary's fingers.

“Thank you,” Mary said, and passed over the small coin.

“Aye,” Hamish agreed. “Our thanks.”

~oOo~

Two red-heads, a brunette, and a man who kept his black beard carefully trimmed and the rest of his head shaved – such were the people that Mary and Hamish found according to the directions of the old witch. As well as their young families and a legion of small creatures with large eyes, ears and noses.

The Potters and their magical child were warmly welcomed by all four and their families.

“He's a bit younger than we'd thought we'd start teaching,” Godric, one of the red-heads hummed as he watched Helga – the other red-head – play with the child as his mother held him.

“No such thing as too young to learn though,” pointed out the regal brunette Rowena.

“And what is your lineage?” Salazar, the bald man, asked.

“The sons of the sons of the sons of Mor'du, first-born prince of the clan of Dun Morith,” Hamish answered. “The last of the line and the clan.”

“I've heard of the great bear Mor'du,” Godric boomed with an eager glint in his eye. “He's said to be... how did it go? 'As ancient as the Highlands and as unforgiving too'. He's your ancestor?”

“Great-grandmother was his wife, before he became the bear he is now,” Hamish confirmed with a nod.

~oOo~

Angus' first and only son was named Charlus. All that schooling, with spells spoken in Latin, had given the boy a bit of a taste for the ridiculousness of it. Charlus called his boy James, and was sad to be forced to watch as a man, mad with magic when he'd been nothing and nobody before it – not even with any parents to love and temper him – started killing just as James started his schooling at Hogwarts castle.

James married a bonnie lass with red hair, and a temper as bright as its shade. She was called Lily, and as passionate a girl Charlus had not seen since his own wife, Dorea (whom he had met at Hogwarts) had passed away. They had themselves a bonnie wee lad, and named him Harry. The family wept soon after Harry's birth though. James and Lily died defending the babbie against the madman, but they had defeated him at least, and Harry lived.

Harry was quickly spirited away by his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and they removed themselves from the area to another. A place nearer to their ancestral home. A place where Mor'du still roamed, and the only witch for several days walking was the old crone that had, so long ago, given Mor'du the spell that changed him.

Angus had ventured to her hovel once, and asked her how she lived so long. The old witch had cackled fondly, and said that magic could do anything, if you just knew how to stroke it. Even make an hour last a month, or the other way around. If you just knew how – but she'd not share that secret with him, as she quickly returned to her adamant claim that she was nothing more than a simple wood-carver now, and she had most certainly never, ever, been a teacher of any kind.

Charlus and Angus, along with Harry's godfather Sirius, had decided against sending the lad to Hogwarts for his magical education. They could the three of them, with a few books besides to help, teach the lad well enough themselves. The boy could also enjoy the stability of living with family and friends all year 'round, learn his family history, and even a trade besides.

Harry, soon as he was old enough to make such a choice, took himself to learn to be a blacksmith under the guidance of the smith that worked for the castle of DunBroch. The boy would learn everything from nails and horseshoes, to candelabras and fine brooches, to swords and helms and shields.

More than that, as he grew, and not all that long after his great-grandfather Angus was buried, Harry learned what it was to fall in love.

~oOo~

“Morning Princess Merida,” Harry greeted with a smile when the fiery-haired girl practically bounced into the stables.

“Och!” the girl exclaimed as she turned sharply, a hand to her chest. “You startled me Harry. G'morning. How're you today?”

Harry chuckled. “All the better for seeing your smile, Princess,” he answered. “And since you _are_ smiling, I may take it to mean you've a day to your own pleasure?”

Merida chuckled bashfully. “Aye,” she agreed. “I do.”

“Well, Angus got new shoes yesterday, and he's well settled into them...” Harry offered with a smile.

Merida grinned at the news. Angus, her horse, had thrown a shoe a few days before during a patrol she'd got to go on with her father.

“And I've a birthday gift for you,” Harry added.

“What is it?” Merida asked as her eyes lit up with surprise and eager delight, and she rocked forward on her toes.

Harry laughed, delighted as he looked down at her bright expression. He was only a year older than the princess, but a full head taller, provided her thick mane of red hair was not included in that – for that added a few inches more to her height. Harry reached out a calloused hand and took hers (more lightly calloused than his own, but still calloused all the same) gently.

Merida, expecting her gift to be placed in that hand, was compliant to his touch, but was disappointed enough to pout when instead he bent and kissed her knuckles instead. Well, and blush and bite her lip to keep herself from stammering.

“Enjoy your ride, Princess Merida,” Harry said as he looked up from her hand to her eyes, which were a blue so bright and clear, they could rival the sky on a perfect, cloudless day. They were also quite fierce when the orange brows above them were furrowed low in a frown.

“That better not have been my gift,” Merida managed to huff at him.

Harry laughed. “Course not,” he agreed with a smile. “But I haven't your gift on my person right now, and I'm not sure you wish to delay your ride for me to fetch it. Not when I shall still have it waiting for your return.”

Merida relented to smile at that, and forgave him for kissing her hand instead of setting her gift there as she had hoped.

“Besides, Angus is already saddled and waiting for you as well,” Harry added with a cheeky smile, and pulled a small leather bag off his belt. “Lunch, for the princess,” he offered her. “And I hope for a tale of great adventure when you return.”

Merida laughed happily, hugged Harry tightly, took the bag from his hand and continued on her way to the stable with a free-hearted _whoop_!

Harry smiled after her as he watched her go.

~oOo~

“Harry,” Charlus called to his grandson wearily when the lad returned from seeing off the princess.

“Grandfather?” Harry answered, and hurried to the wearing old man's side.

“Harry, you know the history of our family,” Charlus said gently.

“Aye,” Harry confirmed. “I'm the seventh generation since Mor'du, the first-born son of the king of Dun Morith, who created a war because he wished to rule alone of his brothers. Ours is a direct line to that good king, but there are no others in our clan who share our blood. His wife was Rhona, the princess of Galbraith, and he won her hand in the Games, but she took her only son by Mor'du and ran when he started the war with his bothers.”

Charlus nodded. “This makes you a prince, I suppose,” the old man said. “But to fall in love with the princess is a thing that will need the knowing of laws and politics. We have taught you magic and history, my father and I, and your master taught you how to work metal as well as if it flowed like magic between your hands. But politics and laws, lad...”

“Sirius taught me,” Harry said, referring to his godfather. The man had, in the spring just passed, been sent for by his own grandfather, to take up the mantle as head of his clan, and so no longer lived with them in DunBroch. “His clan is larger than ours, and even though he isn't of a highland clan, he still taught me it all.” Harry chuckled as he recalled the reason that Sirius had given for teaching him such things when Harry had been ten and utterly uninterested in such things. “He said that even if no one had claimed the throne of my family for seven generations, that didn't make me any less the prince of those lands, and I should know how to mind them if I decided to quit making nails and horseshoes.”

Charlus chuckled at that. “And did your godfather also teach you how to transform yourself into an animal, the way he has learned? Never have I met a man for whom the moniker 'dog' was so suitable.”

Harry grinned at that. “Aye,” he agreed. “He did.”

“Just tell me you don't turn into a bear,” Charlus requested with a wry cant to his lips.

Harry laughed. “I am already looking to become a bear of a man, Grandfather, I should not want to resemble our ancestor any more than that!”

“Aye,” Charlus agreed with a true smile. “Blacksmithing, Miss Maudie's cooking, and another three years before your stop growing will likely see you as tall and strong as Mor'du. Just do not mistake strength for character, Harry.”

“Aye, Grandfather,” Harry agreed. “I'll not forget. Now, I've got to fetch Princess Merida's birthday gift, or she'll fire one of her arrows inte me arse when she gets back from her ride.”

That just made Charlus laugh all the more.

~oOo~

Harry reached Merida just as she finished setting her horse up with a bucket of oats while the stable-hands saw to his grooming and tack.

“Harry!” Merida called happily. “Is that my present?”

Harry laughed. “Aye, Princess,” he confirmed as he passed over the gift, carefully wrapped in the tartan that only he and his grandfather wore now. A green and blue tartan, but it was also struck through with black, and much thinner red and white stripes.

Merida took a moment to stare at the cloth that the gift was wrapped in. “I... don't know this tartan,” she admitted slowly, “and Mother drilled me on all the tartans of the clans.”

Harry chuckled at that, but it was a sad sound.

Merida looked up at him, curious.

“Come sit with a humble blacksmith, Princess Merida, and I'll tell you a tale, but I fully expect to be repaid for it with a recounting of what exciting things you did today,” he said, and offered his hand to her.

Merida tucked her gift (still wrapped in the tartan cloth and tied with simple string) under one arm, slipped her other hand into Harry's, and let him lead her off to a quiet corner of the castle where they could sit and speak in privacy.

“Do you want my story first, or to unwrap your present?” Harry asked, once they were seated together in the shelter and comfort of a haystack.

Merida thoughtfully ran her hands over the cloth-wrapped gift, which she had settled in her lap, then turned to Harry.

“Your story,” she decided.

Harry nodded. “Very well,” he agreed.

~oOo~

_Some short way from here, only about two days hard ride I should think, there are the ruins of a castle, all that remains of an ancient kingdom. You might know them. Aye, swallowed by the woods and haunted, many folk say. They're not full wrong. The name of the kingdom that was ruled from that castle has been mostly forgotten, I'm sad to say. I know it though. I learned it from my grandfather, who learned it from his father, who learned it from his, and so back until the days when everybody still knew the name._

_It was Dun Morith, and it was ruled by a wise and fair king, beloved by his people and his four sons. But there was the trouble, my princess. That he was a fair king with four sons, and he loved them all equally. When he grew old and frail, he declared that his eldest son would not take the throne alone, but share the ruling with his brothers._

_For the youngest brother was wise beyond his years, the third son was full of compassion for all the people of their lands, the second son was just and fair to all, and the eldest son had the greatest strength of them. Quite strength enough to have won the hand of the princess of Galbraith in the Games, and she was his wife, the only wife any of the brothers had._

_The eldest expected to inherit the throne, to be king alone with his wife as queen, but strength is not character, my princess, and the old king saw that. The king saw that the four of his sons together could rule his people well, making an even greater kingdom than he had alone, and far greater than any one of them alone might achieve, and so he decreed, as he lay dying, that it would be so._

_The eldest felt disgraced by this, that he alone did not inherit as he had expected to, and his selfishness spread like poison in his veins. His wife was round with child, and upon the birth of a son, he could no longer keep silent. He declared his claim to his brothers – a claim that he alone would rule, and his child alone would be heir to their father's kingdom – and he demanded their obedience._

_Words, unkindly said and unable to be taken back, were thrown about. The love the brothers had shared – the bonds between them – shattered, and words turned to war._

_Aye, Princess, war. Not simply fighting as you have seen, but war. Soldiers lined up across the moors, pikes and swords in hand, seeking each of them to kill their foes. The lands are still fertile from their sacrifice, for there is nothing that feeds the woods so well as the decayed flesh of man by their roots._

_Each prince commanded a powerful army, but each brother had the same training for battle, prepared as they had been to defend their father's kingdom against invaders, and each strength of each brother was still well balanced against the others. A bitter stalemate faced them._

_The princess had long fled with her son, for she knew that to be in the midst of a war was not a safe place for herself and her babe. She left the highlands behind to protect her child, not even returning to her father's kingdom, but vanishing herself away and taking a different name than her husband's or her father's. Still, she listened to all that would reach her of how the war between her husband and his brothers progressed._

_The eldest brother was eaten up with wanting for victory, and prone to stalking the woods with his weapons when frustrated, for he was a violent man, and just wise enough that he knew it would serve no one if he struck one of his soldiers in his anger. He found an ancient ring of stones, and from there, he was found by the wisps, who had heard him cursing his fate._

_He followed them to the edge of a dark loch. There was, out in the centre of this loch, a stone cottage, accessible only by a broken and slippery path of half-submerged rocks. A cottage where lived, he discovered, a witch._

_Aye lass, a witch. They're real as the wisps, and I know you've seen at least one of those in your time. Wizards too, but that's another matter, I suppose. Know that magic is not only the realm of women, at least._

_That's better, a smile. I did not mean to make you frown so much on your birthday, Princess. Now, where was I in my tale? Ah, the eldest prince had met the witch. He demanded of her a spell to change his fate, to give him the strength of ten, so that he would secure the victory he desired, and in payment for the spell, he offered her his signet ring._

_The spell the witch provided him with gave the prince a choice. It could fulfil his wish, granting him that victory, or it would see him finally mend the bond he had severed among his brothers. He left her, satisfied, and drew out his brothers with a false truce._

_They came, each of the younger brothers hopeful of peace, but when they arrived to meet him, he claimed his kingdom once again. He boldly informed them of the spell he had acquired, and though they protested, he drank it down._

_The spell at once gave him the tenfold strength he had sought from the witch, but it changed him more than that. What else had strength tenfold of a mortal man, Princess Merida? Your father is named the Bear King, aye, but it became far more true a title for this prince. The spell gave him the form of a great black bear._

_He accepted this form, rather than trying to break free of the spell and mending the bonds, and he killed his brothers. From there, he returned to command his army, but only one had seen the transformation of their prince, and he had run upon seeing him slay his brothers. The armies saw only the monster, roaring at them, and they took up arms against the great bear._

_He slaughtered them in retaliation, and only those who ran fast enough survived._

_Such was the fate of the kingdom of Dun Morith, where wisdom failed in the face of pride and selfishness. As for Galbraith, the home of the princess, it was taken by Vikings at the same time as the war raged, for there were no allies or soldiers to be spared to save the clan. Only the one princess and her son remained of the two once-great kingdoms. Them, and the legend that was left behind, though the name of Dun Morith was forgotten to time, save to those of the line of the eldest son and his bride._

_Aye, I'm of that line. Each new generation had only one child, a son always, and I am the seventh generation, the first and only son of the line of Dun Morith and Galbraith, prince of two dead and forgotten kingdoms. The tartan that I have wrapped your gift in, my princess, is the tartan of Galbraith. That is my tale._

~oOo~

Merida was silent as she contemplated that tale, and gently stroked the cloth that hid her present that sat still upon her lap.

“So... the tartan is of your great-great-great... uh...” she tried, and lifted a hand to count on her fingers how many great's.

Harry chuckled. “Aye, my many-greats grandmother,” he said, and gently laid his hand over hers. “Rhona. A fine woman, so the family history says, but one who did not have the life she had quite expected.”

“What d'you mean?” Merida asked, curious.

“Well, as a princess, her hand was to be claimed by a first-born son of another clan who declared his intent to her, and that hand competed for in the Games. She was raised knowing that, as I dare-say you have been, since it was the same for your mother. Many's a lass who, when she reaches your age and has more than one suitor seeking her hand, resolves the matter at the Games.”

“Suitors? My age?” Merida repeated, eyes wide and fearful.

Harry chuckled. “Aye, Princess. You're of a marriageable age now,” he said, “and a beauty besides,” he added when he saw the naked terror in her eyes. “But, Rhona. She was raised believing that the man who won her hand would be a fine prince, and as many a girl your age – if I judge rightly by the other girls about the castle – she expected happiness and bliss in her marriage, even if she dinnae know the man she would marry. She was disappointed in her husband, for though he was strong, he wasn't kind, and that was another reason she ran from him when he started the war with his brothers.”

“Her name is passed down in your family?” Merida said softly.

“Aye,” Harry confirmed. “As is the name of her husband, the first-born son of Dun Morith, though her name is more loved, for she protected her child, and without her we would not be.”

“What... what was the name of her husband?” Merida asked curiously.

Harry smiled wryly at that. “His name is well known, though that he had a wife and son is not. Think it through, my princess, and tell me his name yourself. What have I told you of him?”

“That... he was very strong, and not kind, that he broke bonds with his brothers and traded his signet ring to a witch for a spell, which turned him into a... bear...” Merida's eyes went wide at that, and she turned to Harry in shock. “No,” she denied.

“Aye,” he confirmed. “As ancient as the highlands, and as unforgiving too, my ancestor, the terrible Mor'du. Every child of our family has been told this story, and every one of us swears against ever mistaking strength for character as he did.”

“Climbing the Crone's Tooth and drinking from the Firefalls today seems like a small achievement compared to the knowledge you have to live with every day,” Merida said softly.

Harry grinned at her. “You finally climbed it?” he said, praise in his tone, and the only hint of disbelief there was that she'd waited so long to do so. Not even the smallest shred of doubt that she could, or that she had. “The view is wonderful from up there isn't it? And the fresh water from the Firefalls is sweeter than any other.”

“You've climbed it?” Merida asked, surprised.

Harry laughed. “Last year,” he admitted. “On my sixteenth birthday, just as you have, my fiery princess. Now, are you going to open your birthday present from me, or not?” he teased gently.

Merida smiled at that, and untied the knot in the string that held the cloth in place around her present.

As soon as the gift was bare before her eyes, and she'd truly processed the sight of that which lay in her lap, Merida threw herself at Harry in an enthusiastic hug, and great cry of  _thank you_ crowing up from her lips and her heart.

“Haha! I'd have bought you a new bow, but I know yours is a fine one, and you've no need for another yet, and you go through arrows like there's no tomorrow. But mind you that,” Harry said as he hugged her back a moment before setting her upright beside him – and removing her from his lap – once more. “That's a style of sword not used in these lands. My godfather Sirius taught me its use, once I'd figured out its making, and this one I made specially for you when my master was satisfied with my way of crafting it. Sirius learned how to use this type of sword from a man with skin the colour of mead, who was forever refusing any drink not water twice boiled, and whose horse was a small and dainty creature, but able to jump over a grown man astride a horse as large as your Angus.”

Merida's eyes were wide in her face and she looked upon her gift with greater awe and not a small measure of longing.

“I'll teach you how to use it,” Harry promised, “and you may keep the cloth as well if you like. Or... perhaps as a favour to a prince with no land of his own?” he asked.

Merida laughed. “I'll turn it intae the belt I use to hang this sword from,” she suggested.

“Och, no need for that my princess,” Harry assured her, and shifted the sword. “I thought of that.”

Merida laughed again to see a fine, thick and beautifully tooled leather belt, with a wonderfully intricate gold buckle, and a hitch upon the side for hanging the sword's sheath from.

“Where did you find gold?” Merida asked, curious.

“My godfather again,” Harry admitted with an easy shrug. “The lands of his clan have rivers almost filthy with the stuff. He often sends me gold. He says his doting upon me, rather than finding an heir of his own, annoys his unseelie nag of a mother, and so gives him incentive to do it more often,” he said with a cheeky, mischievous smile.

Merida giggled at that behind a hand.

“Now come along, my princess,” Harry urged as he stood. “I'm sure you're hungry by this time, and I know that the rest of your family has been served their dinner,” he said, and offered her his hand to help her rise.

Merida nodded and slipped her hand into Harry's.

He bent and kissed it, but before she could give voice to an objection to his foolishness, he pulled her so quickly up from the haystack that she slammed into his chest.

“May I compete for your hand in the next Games, Princess Merida?” Harry asked her softly, his head bent so that he could whisper in her ear. “Grandfather says that your own father had to win three contests before he could claim your mother's hand. Which will you choose?”

Harry heard Merida's sharp intake of breath, felt it hitch upon her breastbone as one of his hands was about her back.

“I don't want to get married!” she objected.

“Aye,” Harry agreed. “I know. I know you well enough to know that. But I know how it goes as well. Any day now, your mother will be getting letters from the lairds, saying if they wish to offer their sons to be your suitors. The sons are in much the same situation as you are, my princess, and have no choice but to come if their fathers wish it,” he explained gently. “My grandfather is kinder to me, and will support any choice I make towards that end. Our family has lived in obscurity for seven generations, and no less of royal blood for that. If you don't want me to compete for your hand when the Games come, then say so, and I shall bow out now.”

“And if I say nothing?” Merida asked cautiously.

“Then Grandfather will walk into your father's great hall behind the other lairds, and declare his intent to offer me to compete against their sons for your hand,” Harry answered. “Because I wish it, and I think you might be happier at least, if your husband is someone who knows you.”

Merida nodded slowly, but found not voice for anything else on the matter.

“I... I should go to dinner,” she said, and gently pushed herself away from Harry. “And... and so you should as well.”

“Aye,” Harry agreed softly, and lifted the hand he still had hold of and gently pressed his lips to it once more. “Goodnight, my princess,” he bid her.

~oOo~

Harry raised an eyebrow at the sight of Merida storming out of her father's castle and down to the stables.

“Go on lad,” Charlus urged him when he saw what his grandson was looking out at. “If your talk with her earlier didn't break up the friendship you have with her, then I dare say she could use a kindly shoulder right now.”

Harry smiled gratefully to his grandfather and hurried out of the house to speak with the young woman who, willingly or not, held his heart.

“-could just tell the lairds,” he heard her soliloquising as he approached the stables. “The princess is not ready for this. In fact, she might not ever be ready for this. So, that's that, good day to you. We'll expect your declarations of war in the morning,” she said, and moaned in frustration as she set aside her rake to pick up a bucket.

“Well, at least you understand some of the consequences of acting rashly over the matter,” Harry quipped to her.

“Ah! Och, Harry! You must stop sneaking up on me like that!” Merida scolded.

Harry chuckled. “Sorry lass,” he apologised with a smile. “But you know that's what will happen if you don't handle this delicately, don't you?” he pressed. “If you insult the lairds, then the alliances, and the peace, they'll be gone. Would you see the three wee devils you call brothers forced to flee for their lives because a war overtook their home?”

“No,” Merida agreed sadly. “But... I don't want to get married. I don't want my life to be over. I want my freedom!”

“Marriage is hardly a death-sentence Princess Merida,” Harry quipped with a smile.

“It's not fair!” Merida objected. “And I know you asked if you could compete for my hand too, Harry. I'm not doing this to hurt you, but... It's my life!”

“It is that,” Harry agreed blandly, “and unfair as well, but it is how it is. Until you've power and allies of your own, you cannae change it. You may be able to get your own child out of it, if you're clever, but not likely yourself.”

Merida groaned in disappointment at that. “I'm just not ready,” Merida protested weakly as she sank down against the side of Angus' stall.

“Betrothal isn't marriage,” Harry pointed out. “And if you make sufficient challenge for your suitors at the Games, maybe none of them will win your hand,” he offered.

“Like?” Merida asked hopefully.

Harry laughed. “Tryin' tae get out of me trying for your hand too? No-one is able to win every game on their own,” he suggested with an easy smile. “And the Games will be fierce if you ask that of them. After all, there'll be people other than your suitors hoping to win some of the Games, likely with their own lady loves and marriages riding on winning.”

“That's it!” Merida declared happily. “Thank you Harry!”

Harry laughed again. “You know, I'm still going to try and win your hand, my princess,” he reminded her. “And your mother may decide that each competition between your suitors will be separate to those competed in by the rest of those foresworn to your father and the lairds.”

“Oh aye, but to have to win at every competition in the Games to take my hand,” Merida mused thoughtfully. “Well, you said it yerself. No-one is able to win every game on their own, and they can't have my hand less they win every single game.”

Harry leaned in close to her, so that his nose near touched hers. “Maybe I'm no mere man,” he suggested.

Merida took her turn to laugh then. “Well, at least I know you, if you should win, and that's if my mother even lets you compete,” she said with a smile.

“Feeling better now, my princess?” Harry asked as he retreated to lean back, relaxed, against the stall side. “You were fit to burst inte flames before.”

“Aye,” Merida agreed. “I'm feeling better now. Thank you Harry.”

~oOo~

“Sound of fighting's stopped,” Harry noted to his grandfather.

“Aye, but it's Fergus yelling,” Charlus countered as he stood with the lad just outside the door of the keep's great hall. “Wait for it. We want the second lull.”

A pained yell rang out, and the noise of melee began again, as did the piping. It built, and built, and then slowly it began to taper off, and the pipes gave an unhappy, discordant wheeze.

Charlus nodded to his grandson when the last note finished echoing, and had him push the doors open then.

Silently, they followed behind as Queen Elanor dragged each of the three lairds and her husband up through the cowed masses, essentially by their ears, like scolded children.

Each one started offering humble, cowed and quick apologies as soon as she released them and continued up to stand before her throne.

“I'm sorry luv,” Fergus offered as he followed after her. “I-I didn't but-”

She turned pointedly away from him.

The great man bowed his head and with a “yes dear,” went to sit on his throne. His wife had the room.

“Eh-he-hem,” she cleared her throat. “Now then, where were we?” she said. “Ah yes. In accordance with our laws, by the rights of our heritage, only the first-born of each of the great leaders may be presented as champions, and thus, compete for the hand of the princess of DunBroch. To win the fair maiden, they must prove their worth by feats of strength or arms in the Games. It is customary, that the challenge be chosen by the princess herself.”

“Aye, Queen Elanor,” Charlus called out. “And from the glint in her lovely blue eyes, I'd say our bonnie princess knows just what challenge she has picked out for her suitors. But before we get quite that far, there is one more suitor to present.”

“Who're you?” demanded the laird of Clan MacGuffin.

“You have heard the legend of the ancient kingdom, a wise king divided his kingdom between his four sons, but it fell into war?” Charlus questioned.

“Aye, we all know the legend,” the laird of Clan Macintosh agreed. “What of it?”

“My father's grandfather's great-grandfather was the first-born son of that same wise king, and mine is a direct line. Royalty, as much as King Fergus, though the line of my clan has lived our lives in humble obscurity under the name of Potter since the war that destroyed the kingdom of our ancestors. Now, I and my grandson are all that remains of the kingdom of Dun Morith and Galbraith, and according to the _law_ ,” Charlus reminded them all, “the first-born of each of the great leaders may be presented as champions. Our ancestor was the first-born of that great king, and since then, there has only been one child, always a son, born to our line. My grandchild is fit to compete against yours for the hand of Princess Merida.”

“What are his accomplishments?” enquired the laird of Clan Dingwall curiously.

“I am a blacksmith,” Harry answered for himself. “And last year, upon my sixteenth birthday, I climbed the Crone's Tooth and drank from the Firefalls.”

Quiet chuckling had started when Harry declared himself a blacksmith, but there was naught but impressed silence at his claim to have drunk from the Firefalls.

“King Fergus, Queen Elanor, my lairds, has my grandson the right to compete for the hand of the fair maiden?” Charlus asked.

Each laird looked Harry up and down. He was dressed only in a kilt made from the tartan of Galbraith (not that they knew the pattern, for it had not been seen much since the clan fell, so long ago, to Vikings), and every muscle he had earned in the forge was on display. He'd no blue paint or tatoos, and only one or two scars about himself – burns, old and shiny, from his trade.

Slowly, they nodded their agreement. Seeing this, Elanor nodded her consent as well.

“Aye,” Fergus agreed at last, after he had cast an eye over his daughter, and noticed how she was looking at the youth who he knew to be the finest blacksmith in his castle, though he was not yet old enough to have been granted the title of 'master'. “He may so compete. Merida, what must these four suitors do, before they may be granted your hand? You have thought of it, haven't you?”

“Aye,” Merida agreed and, with some difficulty owing to the stiffness of the dress she had been forced into, stood. “I have decided that, before any suitor may have my hand, they must prove themselves at _every_ sport in the Games that does not require they have a team to compete in it.”

“And whoever has the greatest number of victories in the Games may have your hand?” Fergus suggested, surprised at his daughter.

“No,” she corrected, and smirked. “Whoever _wins_ at _every_ sport may so have my hand.”

“Oh my,” Elanor gasped softly. “But... very well. It is the right of the princess to dictate this,” the queen agreed.

Merida bowed her head in agreement to this stipulation. She had Harry's assurance already that no-one would be able to win at every game, and seeing the suitors before her, she was inclined to believe that each of them would have their weaknesses and strengths.

“So... let the Games begin!” Elanor declared with a smile.

A great cheer erupted through the hall.

“The Games will be grand this year my daughter,” Fergus informed Merida happily, before he cocked an eyebrow at her. “I don't think you're likely to get betrothed this year though,” he pointed out softly.

“Aye, that's my hope,” she agreed.

Fergus bit back a great belly-laugh at that, though possibly it wouldn't have been heard anyway among the cheering.

~oOo~

The caber toss, the weight throw, the weight-over-bar, the stone put, the hammer throw, the sheaf-toss (always a crowd pleaser), and the maide leisg were the traditional events of the Highland Games, but by no means the full and complete list that Merida's suitors would have to champion themselves in for her hand. There was also tug-o-war, archery, sword fighting, displays of horsemanship, sprints, mid-distance races, a race that went ten times around the track, and even one where, along the way, the racers had to jump hurdles. The suitors had to throw the javelin, and guide a sheepdog with the same expert skill as those who had raised and bonded with their dogs out on the highlands as they herded sheep every day – and then shear one such sheep in the fastest time, and with the cleanest cut.

“Don't you think you're asking a bit much of them, Merida dear?” Elanor asked hesitantly when she noticed that Merida had added those last two to her list. “They're warriors after all, not farmers.”

“A good ruler must understand their people, Mother,” Merida quoted with the smallest of smiles, and knew that her mother couldn't quibble with that, because the one Merida was quoting was Queen Elanor herself.

Elanor would later swear that she felt another of her hairs turn grey at that.

Merida relented, as she knew that her mother, at least, hadn't as much enthusiasm for the Games as she and her father usually did.

“Mum, as soon as one of them wins at a single game, the others are essentially disqualified. After that, they'll really just be competing until that first winner doesn't win at something.”

Elanor narrowed her eyes at her daughter then. “Merida, as princess, getting married is something that will happen, sooner or later,” she instructed firmly.

“Aye,” Merida answered unhappily. “But hopefully not before I'm ready for such a life-altering commitment, nor with a total stranger.”

Elanor winced slightly at that.

The first event was a sprint. A simple race. Closely run from beginning to end, but it was Harry that claimed the ribbon for crossing the line before the others.

Quietly, Merida breathed out a sigh of relief. The suitors she did not know had there and then lost all chance to win her hand, and Harry was her friend. He was unlikely to win her hand, by his own admission as to the likelihood of anybody winning every event at the Games, but if she was to be forced to marry any of them, then Harry at least she knew. She didn't think she'd be able to bear having to marry any of the other three.

Harry was disqualified when (after the races, the archery, and the sword fighting, all of which he'd managed to scrape through by the smallest margins) the MacGuffin boy beat him (and everybody else) in the caber toss. The blacksmith was a good sport about it though.

“If anybody can beat you at the caber toss when you're really goin' at it, and by skill rather than luck or trickery, then I'll eat my sword,” Harry declared with a grin as he gave the beefy blonde a friendly slap to the shoulder.

The MacGuffin boy had smiled bashfully back.

Merida relaxed, just about sagged in her chair as she gave off a relieved sigh. No betrothal or marriage for her! Not yet anyway. And no horrible political mess either. Thank goodness!


End file.
